Swingin' Sixties
by Rahuratna
Summary: The accidental unleashing of a Shadow Game at a tournament leads to unforeseen disaster. With only their courage, skill and wit at hand, Mai Valentine and Seto Kaiba must piece their way back to a reality neither might be willing to face . . . Slight AU
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I own no Yugioh characters portrayed in this fic :)

**Chapter 1**

How, in the name of all that is holy, did it come to this?

It was a question that reigning duel champion, Yugi Mutou, would ask himself frequently over the days that would follow the 'incident'. His height, or rather, lack of it, was serving as great impediment in his attempts to keep Joey Wheeler from strangling the tall, sneering CEO.

"You stay back, Yug! I'm gonna thrash that asshole 'til his own fan club don't recognise him no more!"

"Joey! Please! We're supposed to be setting an example . . ."

"Huh. No need, Mutou." Kaiba flicked some plebian germs from the lapel of his white business coat where Joey had unceremoniously seized him. "The mutt doesn't follow 'human-speak'. It's really quite funny that he understood the invite, seeing as it didn't come with a complimentary dog biscuit . . ."

"Ya snotty jerkwad! Wait 'til I . . ."

"All right, enough." A deep, sultry female voice interrupted the spat as the owner, a perfectly made-up and manicured Mai Valentine, sauntered over and grasped Joey firmly by the elbow. Yugi gave an inaudible sigh of relief as the enraged duelist immediately subsided a little. "Take a seat, Joseph. This isn't your argument."

"How fortunate that you reminded me." Kaiba's icy glare turned back, full force, on the original instigator. He raised the offending object that Yugi had shoved into his hand a few minutes before, holding it as if it had been used it to scrape dog-droppings off his heel. "I would think that you would have learnt by now, Mutou. I don't believe._ I never will_. You , your sudden bursts of puberty and your 'cheerleaders of all things supernatural' can go to hell."

Yugi, despite his innate good nature, felt his patience begin to slip. "Kaiba, it doesn't matter what you believe. You're free to follow whatever makes sense in your mind, but the Rod belongs with you."

"Belongs with me?" The imposing, broad-shouldered frame seemed to heighten, if possible, as Kaiba's eyebrows drew dangerously close to each other. The temperature in the champions' box dropped by a few degrees and Mai took a seemingly casual step forward so that she stood in-between the two. "Care to explain how some artifact from ancient Egypt is _supposed _to be in my possession? And don't give me that re-incarnation crap. This . . . thing should go straight to a museum."

"Waddaya mean ya don't believe?" Joey would not be suppressed for long. "After all we been through, ya still mean ta tell us ya ain't seen nothin_'_ that convinces you? Hell, even I was pretty darn skeptic 'bout all dis . . . stuff, but I seen it wid my own pair o' eyes and Yug here's my buddy and he don't lie 'bout nothin', ya got that, moneybags?"

"Seen with your own eyes? Please," Kaiba scoffed and waved the Rod in mockery, "Hallucinogenics and clever holograms, nothing I myself couldn't develop, given the time and considering I'd want to engage in such a useless pursuit." His gaze traveled back to Yugi, somewhat hidden behind Mai's ample curves and something new entered his expression, something the shorter boy didn't like in the slightest. "Prove it then, Mutou." The Rod was out again, pointing straight towards the spiky, multi-coloured hair.

Something came to Yugi's mind, then, a thought, not his own. "Kaiba . . ." he raised his hands in warning.

"What? Afraid I might invoke the displeasure of the Gods?"

"No, just . . . just put the Rod away . . ."

The CEO gave a short, harsh bark of laughter. Mai frowned and glanced at Yugi's worried expression that was starting to morph slightly into panic. Without looking away she addressed Kaiba. "Uh, hon, why don't you just do what . . . "

"Prove it," hissed Kaiba, brandishing the polished length of metal, "Convince me of my so-called 'heritage' and I will never question you again . . ." He stopped abruptly, his motions frozen, eyes transfixed by the Rod.

"Kaiba! No!" Yugi clutched at his own Puzzle, the horror in his voice clearly audible. Mai turned in confusion from one to the other, her gaze widening as she observed the changes that were asserting themselves. A shout from Joey. A "What the . . . ?" from Kaiba. And that's when things . . . well, went downhill. To put it lightly.

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The day had started like any other. With a Mokuba.

"SETO! Setosetostosetoseto . . ."

Grunt.

" . . . setosetosetoseto . . . uh . . . nope, not awake . . . setosetoseto . . ."

"Whtstme?"

"It's four A. M. You promised!"

He was awake now and glaring blearily up at the beaming violet eyes and unruly thatch of dark hair that heralded the presence of his just-turned-thirteen-and-loving-it brother.

"Mokuba, as I recall . . ."

"Yeah, I know, the alarm was set for five. But I checked your schedule and I calculated that you'd need an extra hour if we're going to test drive the rollercoaster before the opening."

"You changed my schedule?"

"Yup."

"My meeting . . ."

"I changed the venue to a coffee shop on Tamari Avenue and sent a memo to Megan so she could make necessary arrangements. Much more aesthetically pleasing and a relaxing atmosphere for your clients. You'll find that punctuality won't be so . . ."

"All right, all right. Now, if you'll get off my legs and actually allow me to move . . ."

With an almost impossibly energetic bounce, the one-kid wonder that was his younger brother darted away and stood to attention. Kaiba ruffled his hair on the way to the bathroom and shot him a proud glance. Vice-president of Kaibacorp in the making. Indeed.

He was showered, dressed and ready within half an hour and met Mokuba in the kitchen for a brief breakfast. An SUV was waiting out front, replacing the regular limo, as they were traveling with heavy security today. The roaring engines expelled billowing clouds of condensation into the frigid morning air as the gleaming convoy of dark vehicles crunched along the gravel walk that led up to the manor gates. The crackle of ripped plastic caused Kaiba to look up sharply from his laptop to check that no 'junk-food' was making its way surreptiously into his brother's digestive system. Mokuba grinned and held up a cereal bar.

"So . . . who've you invited to the hallowed Champions' box?"

"Yugi of course. And Wheeler." He winced and Mokuba laughed. "The mutt is second runner-up after all. Rebecca Hawkins, although she's already informed us that she won't be attending. College issues. Mai Valentine, won the championship in Europe."

"Mmhmmmm . . . she's a _fine _piece of . . ."

"Mokuba!"

"Just kidding!"

"Remind me to monitor what you watch on T. V."

"You wouldn't!"

The rollercoaster 'test-drive' was enjoyable enough, even for him. He stepped out, straightening his tie and running a hand through his ruffled brown hair while Mokuba leapt out with a wild whoop and took no such measures towards his own tidiness. The grand opening of Kaibaland was set to take place in two hours and he set out on a swift walkabout with the boy in tow. A tournament had been organised (without himself or any of the previous champions participating) as an effective way to garner attention for talented up-and-coming duelists. While they were wearing his state-of-the-art new duel-disc, of course. Yugi, himself and the other highly-ranked duelists would be watching events unfold in the spectacular dueling arena below from the luxury of the champions' box.

And this was precisely where he found himself, some hours later (minus Mokuba, thankfully) when everything went so abominably wrong.

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The day had started like any other. With a moan and a string of curses as bright sunlight prised open protesting eyelids.

Sitting up in bed and stretching, listening to the satisfying 'pop' of her stiff back, Mai Valentine glanced across the dingy little bedroom to the cracked mirror opposite. A ghastly vision stared back, the face a stark white contrast to the dull bedclothes and the neon green projections from the straggly scalp. Groaning, she heaved herself out of the narrow bed and headed for the bathroom where the self-manufactured face-mask and hair-curlers were removed and the shower turned on for a good five minutes before hot water sputtered out. She studied her reflection again as she removed the last of the curlers, setting the cheap plastic cylinders carefully aside.

It wasn't the way it used to be. She used to get away with a simple glance at her reflection, a hasty application of lip-gloss, a touch of bronzer to her radiant, healthy complexion and a complimentary slap on the butt in the mirror before she left the house. Now she had to scrutinize. To examine herself from every angle. To cover up the blemishes and pastiness that came with an infrequent, inadequate diet and the shadows of fatigue under each eye. To curl and primp the lacklustre blonde mane that had once bounced and gleamed in the sunlight like spun gold.

_How long? How much longer do I have to keep this up? Before I settle down with a white picket fence, two-and-a-half kids and a beer-bellied accountant? Before I fade . . ._

She was fading. Bit by bit. And the numerous jobs she had taken to secure some financial security were taking their toll. The winnings from her previous tournament were all but depleted in funding her lavish lifestyle. She had never planned for this, never thought she would ever land in such desperate straits. When she had heard that she would be attending this tournament merely as a spectator, not as a participant, she had nearly screamed in frustration. No prize money. But she would see Joey.

Stepping into the shower, a heavy, dull feeling settled in her stomach and her throat constricted uncomfortably. Joey. Joseph Wheeler. She still hadn't established the nature of her feelings for him. She was afraid to, something she would never admit. Mai Valentine didn't scare easily. But there was still that painful, pleasurable squeeze she felt deep inside whenever she heard his voice, watched the wind catch his thick hair, saw the warmth in his glowing brown eyes that was just for her. But would he act on it? Were they forever to be 'just friends'? He was younger than her; he could move on, make a good life for himself, free of her. And she could move on too, settle down, have a good life with that ache always plaguing her inside. The feeling that despite her talent, charm, wit and natural beauty, she would forever be wondering why real happiness was so elusive.

The makeup came on, a layer on top followed by concealer, artfully applied. A touch of rouge, not too bright, otherwise the paleness of her complexion would take the forefront, and lipstick. Then the eyeshadow, light, neutral tones in gold and apricot hues to create a delicate glow. And finally, eye drops to lend a liquid brightness to her gaze that had vanished as of late. _No cracks in this mask, Valentine_. Her clothes were no longer the midriff and thigh-revealing affairs she had in plenty. A fitted knee-length skirt and summer blouse were selected to conceal the underlying scrawny shape of her legs and shoulders.

The tournament would be held during the grand opening of Kaibaland. She no longer had enough free cash to afford gas for her little convertible so the bus service would have to do. It was a grueling walk from the bus-stop to the theme park in her high heels and she immediately found a ladies-room upon entry and took the shoes off. Seating herself on the pristine toilet lid, she massaged the soles of her feet for some minutes before setting out for the ostentatious duel arena and the champions' box. Her stomach clenched in anticipation of seeing Joey.

Of course, it was always rather anticlimactic once she was actually with him. There would be no sudden realisation, no meeting of eyes in sudden understanding, no electric-ridden touches or breathy exchanges in stilted words. She was too much of a cynic to expect anything of the sort. And yet, it would be nice, for once . . .

"Mai!"

She was embraced by strong, wiry arms and Joey then held her at arm's-length, his hands reassuring on her shoulders. He didn't feel the shudder that passed imperceptibly through her frame, the sudden crack in the seamless facade and the flicker of desperation as if she were ready to throw herself into his arms and forget everything. In a fraction of a second, it was gone.

"Joseph." She flashed him one of her dazzling trademark smiles and he blushed and relinquished his grip on her hastily. "Missed me?"

And then Kaiba had arrived. Kaiba with his domineering presence and impossible height, all tailored suit, perfectly combed hair and gripping, arctic gaze. Everything about the CEO aggravated Joey beyond reason. A fact that was painfully obvious from the raging row that had currently taken over the champions' box and drawn all their attention away from the duel below.

Mai had stepped in as mediator, hushing the ranting Joey, placing herself between a glacially enraged Kaiba and frustrated Yugi. And that was, really, how she had involved herself when things went so utterly, damnably, abominably wrong.

At least Kaiba had gone with her.

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**A/N: **A big change from my usual style . . . but I felt some variety was necessary J


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic!

**Chapter 2**

Mahad liked to think of himself as 'Royal Practitioner of Spells'. This did not stop those less enlightened from calling him a magician. Needless to say, the man had seen many strange things in his lifetime, especially considering the nature of his apprentice's 'expertise' in causing a variety of (unintended) magical phenomena. This, however, was beyond bizarre.

"What is he wearing?"

"I don't know, Mana. It looks . . . different."

"That's . . . an understatement, Master."

"Mana. What did you . . ."

"Nothing! I swear! I wasn't even thinking about him! Master, you have to believe me, I . . . "

"All right, quiet."

A sandaled foot stretched out and tentatively poked the recumbent figure, lying on its side in the sand. All that resulted was a dismissive grunt.

"Master, where did he get such clothes?"

"Those are like no clothes I've ever seen before. It must be the product of magic. Which raises the question, Mana . . . "

"Master, no! Why don't you believe me?"

So saying, his apprentice huffed and took on an extremely offended expression which involved a great deal of pouting. Mahado sighed.

"Still, Mana, you cannot deny that he appeared here at the precise moment you completed the incantation . . . "

She frowned and spun on her heel to face him, one finger tapping her chin thoughtfully. "But that's it. I did everything correctly Master. I'm sure, this time! But . . . I felt a disturbance."

"Indeed." Mahad had certainly felt it. A ripple in the shadow magic, .

"Master . . . " she began slowly "You don't think he was tampering . . . "

"Nonsense." He said it little more gruffly than he intended and Mana took to looking like a small, hurt animal. He sighed. "Mana, I apologise. But you cannot freely bandy about such thoughts. And besides, the High Priest would know better than to experiment in such a dangerous field. He is the Pharaoh's advisor, one of the wisest among us. You would do well to remember these things."

She shuffled her feet, a little subdued. "So . . . do you think he was attacked?"

"We'll have to take him back to the palace." Mahad knelt and placed his hands over the motionless figure at his feet. After a few moments' deep concentration he rose to his feet, shaking his head slightly.

"Well? Is he all right? Is he hurt?"

"No. He seems to be fine, other than unconscious."

"Master? Is something . . . "

"It's not right." Mahad shook his head, a slight furrow on his elegant brow that Mana was not accustomed to seeing.

"What's not right?" she asked timidly.

"There's something . . . wrong. A wrong feel . . . "

He raised his hands again, abruptly, and a shimmering haze, so light as to be almost invisible, appeared beneath the unconscious High Priest. He tipped a finger and the forcefield rose, lifting the man so that he floated horizontally in mid air. A few more moments of concentration and the entire ensemble of priest and shield were camouflaged perfectly against the rolling, golden dunes around them, the barely visible outline blending perfectly against the background wherever it moved. Mana, not exactly the star pupil, was watching with a profound sense of awe for a true master of spells.

"Mana, get your equipment. We're leaving."

She hurriedly sorted through the various practise items lying scattered about their training spot and followed. When the High Priest had first appeared, falling out of the sky from seemingly nowhere, dressed in that strange apparel, she had been completely unprepared. Mahad had reacted almost instinctively, staff out, cushioning the fall that would have done some extensive damage to the man floating ahead of them. She was still completely bewildered by his appearance.

_Surely . . . surely it couldn't have been me?_

She _had _made the thunderclouds morph into the face of that handsome grocer at the market once, and also made Isis's dress shrink to the size of a five-year old's in the presence of Shada and her master (thankfully Isis's natural self-confidence and poise had allowed her to gracefully rise and exit the room with minimal embarrassment). And there was that one time when Seth had woken up with a cow in his bed . . . but all those incidents had occurred because her too-vivid imagination had been entirely focused on those ridiculous scenarios while performing magic. This, she was entirely sure, had nothing to do with her. She had been (for once) entirely focused on the spell and not the High Priest falling unconscious from the sky wearing a weird white coat, trousers and a funny looking blue cloth knotted around his neck. Not to mention that strange smell coming from him, his oddly pale complexion and the rectangular metallic contraption that had fallen out of his pocket and made funny noises and displayed colourful pictures when she fiddled with it.

Needless to say, Mahad had confiscated the object before she hurt herself. But stranger than all these incidents, stranger even than the High Priest's clothes, was the sight that met the spellcaster and his apprentice when they reached the palace. Mahad stopped dead, eyes wide, breath momentarily leaving him, while Mana tripped over her own feet and gawked openly.

Standing before them, regal blue and gold robes robes sweeping the floor, issuing commands to the cohort of scribes that scuttled about him in a strident baritone, was the High Priest himself. Fully conscious and functioning. Bronze skinned and certainly with no funny odour or metallic, colourful objects falling from his person. He caught sight of the two dumbstruck observers and scowled.

"Nothing better to do than stare at your colleagues, Mahad?"

"But . . . but . . . " Mana was pointing between the High Priest and the shimmering haze to her master's left, bereft of words.

"What is it? I don't have all day," Seth snapped irritably.

Mahad, who had sufficiently composed himself, but still appeared a shade paler, cleared his throat. "High Priest? Could I speak to you in private?"

He was answered by an indignant huff. "Can it wait? I'm up to my neck in treasury security reports and . . . "

"NOW." Both Seth and Mana looked at him, startled. Mahad schooled his face into what he hoped was polite urgency. "Please."

Snorting, Seth tossed the sheaf of papyrus he held to one of his assistants and strode forward, beckoning for the two of them to follow. "This had better be worth it, " he grumbled.

"I . . . think you won't be disappointed then, Seth."

The door to Seth's private chamber slammed shut and he stood in the centre of the room, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised inquiringly. Mahad and Mana exchanged glances before Mahad wordlessly lifted the enchantment and deposited the still form into a nearby chair. A deafening silence filled the room as the tension grew to breaking point. Their reverie was shattered by the man in the chair stirring and sitting upright, blinking groggily around him. Mana noted that his eyes retained the same icy blue colour as the High Priest's. Even his demeanour, as he ran his fingers through his dusty hair and straightened that funny blue cloth around his neck, held a certain air of dignity and strength. He looked up, eyes regaining a horribly familiar sharpness as he looked from Mana to Mahad, missing Seth and his dangerous silence behind him. He frowned and Mana nearly gasped out loud at the similarities. And then he opened his mouth and the sounds that emerged were entirely unfamiliar. When nobody responded, he repeated his request, slowly and clearly, impatience and haughtiness creeping into his tone. Even Mahad was watching in silent amazement.

Finally, Seth spoke. His voice was a low, rumbling growl, disbelief and fury evident in every taut line of his body. "_What_ is the meaning of this?"

The man in the chair turned his head at the sound of the voice, then shot out of the seat, his stance and expression a mirror reflection of the man before him. He pointed a trembling finger at the High Priest, his voice rising in complete outrage. And suddenly, they could understand him.

" . . . who the hell you are, or why you're all standing around dressed like this, but I demand that you explain yourselves immediately! Right now, or I call the authorities!"

"You speak our tongue?" Mahad stepped into the breach as the man paused in his rant, panting heavily. He nearly flinched at the twin beams of pure ire directed at him.

"What the heck are _you _babbling about?" And then the strange man obviously realised that he had switched to their dialect, because his hand rose to throat and clutched it convulsively, eyes widening in horror.

Seth took the opportunity to raise his hand and Mahad caught a flash of gold.

"Seth! NO!"

"Goddamit!"

Spitting sand and dusting out her hair and clothes, Mai stumbled to her feet for the hundreth time, having lost her footing on the shifting sand yet again. First she had tried taking off her shoes, but the ground was so hot that she had danced around yelping for a good couple of minutes before she managed to slip them on again. Then she tried walking and found that it was an even more fruitless exercise. Standing still for a couple of minutes, one hand raised above her brow in an ineffective attempt to block out the glare, she surveyed her surroundings for heaven knew what.

"Where the fuck am I?" Cursing, she spun in a full circle, the endless stretch of sweeping desert offering no answers. Finally, she resorted to snapping off the high heels, wincing as she did so. They had been one of her favourite designer pairs after all. Walking was still difficult, but just manageable, as long as she watched where she stepped.

Somehow, she had managed to retain a hold of her handbag when she had fallen through to wherever this was. Then she remembered her sunglasses. Hastily donning them, she uttered a small sigh as her vision instantly began to recover from the harsh refelection of sun on sand. Her clothes were already soaked with perspiration and she struggled out of her blouse, draping it over her head and shoulders for protection from the sun's fierce heat. Which was not much at all.

"Kaiba, where the hell are you?" she murmered as she crested yet another dune. It was then that she caught the movement on the horizon, a small motion, barely visible. Whipping off the glasses, she stood on tiptoe, stretching as far as her legs would allow her. There! Something . . . an animal? A camel! And a rider!

Whooping in exultation, she broke into a sprint, only to topple over and roll head first down the sand dune. Undaunted, she sprang to her feet once again, running in the direction of the vision, shouting till her voice was hoarse. Up ahead, the sound of distant voices traveled to her, and she scrambled over the next dune, muscles screaming in protest. Gasping and staggering with the effort of her exertion, sweat pouring from her face and body, she finally confronted the camel and its rider. And found herself staring at an entire caravan. The rider must have been bringing up the rear. A flattened expanse stretched out before the traveling party, some kind of primitive road, winding to ribbon width on the horizon.

She paused long enough to see that the entire caravan had drawn to a halt, the flanking riders standing stock still, facing her, and heads poking up above the raw-hide canvas sheltering the wagons. When nobody made any moves to initiate contact, she stepped forward hesitantly, hands automatically rising to either side in the universal gesture of peace. Some instinct told her to be cautious. Very much so. The moment she started to come forward, there was a collective movement amongst the riders. And in a few minutes, she was completely surrounded by wall of gleaming, nasty looking spear-heads.

"Hey, hey! Take it easy, will you?"

She tried to draw herself in as much as possible. Who knew what else had been stabbed with those spears? The riders were all swathed from head to foot in protective linen garb and they shifted, forming a gap as one of their number pushed his way forward. He pulled away the cloth covering his face and stared down at her. He had a nut-brown, weatherbeaten countenance, much lined and with a strangely luxuriant black moustache. There was something very calculating about his expression, something that spoke of shrewdness and veiled assessment. Mai was sure she didn't like it. Under other circumstances, she would have imagined him in an Armani suit and patent leather shoes, sipping Bourbon and cutting Cuban cigars with his teeth.

The man spoke, his tone low and gravelly. Okay, maybe not cigars, but he definitely sounded like he'd seen his fair share of hookahs. It was also a pity she didn't understand a word he said.

"I . . . speak . . . English," she enunciated slowly and carefully. "You . . . no . . . speak . . . English?"

She was rewarded by a series of blank stares. The man leaned forward off his saddle to look more closely at her. "Eeeng . . . liss?"

"ENGLISH," she repeated, nodding rapidly, "You speak?"

He paused for a moment, frowning at her mouth as if hoping to decipher what she was saying by lip-reading. He shook his head slowly. She almost screamed in exasperation. "I . . . need . . . water."

She mimed the act of drinking from a cup. He scrutinized her for another minute, a scanning head-to-toe look. She was suddenly aware of her lack of clothing. Dammit. Figures that she would end up half-naked in her finest Victoria's Secret amongst an apparently very conservative population who would likely not approve of such attire in the slightest. Mai was not one for inhibitions, but something about his look made her uneasy. It was not a lustful glance (and heaven knew, she could recognise those a mile away), it was more like he was assessing her value, like an animal at a slaughterhouse.

Her reverie was broken by him snapping his fingers. Immediately, five riders broke away and split up, each heading in a different direction. He then beckoned once and Mai found herself being nudged along, none to gently as the remaining riders circled her and herded her forward in the direction indicated. The tip of a spear scraped her shoulder and she turned, swatting it away angrily.

"Watch it, camel-breath!" she snapped, earning a slight widening of the eyes from the man in question.

A sharp command was issued from the leader and she found herself with a little more breathing space, the riders watching her askance from behind their veils. When they reached the second caravan, she was ushered up into the cool, shaded space, giving a small sigh of relief as the sun's vicious heat left her shoulders. A very soft rug covered the floor of the interior, not what she would have preferred in this heat, but definitely an improvement. The 'leader' was already seated, cross-legged on a wide embroidered cushion. She stared as he unfastened his long robe, allowing it to fall open and (thankfully) revealing some kind of uniform beneath. A semi-breastplate of some kind, delicately tooled and very expensive looking, and loose-fitting, cotton trousers. And a leather belt with a scabbard attached, the hilt of a sword protruding very visibly. A sword. A bloody _sword_.

With his stocky build, she had expected a pot-belly, but the armour said otherwise. A soldier or military man of some kind, then. _Where on earth am I? Who the hell wears armour anymore? _He had obviously noticed her gaze fix on his weapon, but chose not to comment. Instead, he reached behind him and retrieved a flask, unstoppering it and taking a deep draught. He paused, looked at her reflectively and offered the flask.

"Water? You were after a drink, weren't you?"

Nodding rapidly, she snatched the container from his grasp, gulping down its contents, cupping a hand beneath her chin as some of the precious liquid seeped from between her lips.

"Thank you." She took a few deep breaths, recovering herself, before freezing in the act of handing over the flask. Her eyes wide, she met his calculating glance with a bewildered one.

"You . . . you spoke! You spoke English!"

He shook his head, slowly.

"But . . . hey, hold on, why did you pretend you couldn't understand me before?" she demanded, "You can sure as hell understand me now!"

He shook his head again, a slight twitching of his moustache the indication of a small smile. She resisted the urge to reach across the narrow space and slap him. Mainly because of the sword hilt still clearly visible. He spoke again, his coarse voice clearly speaking words she understood.

"No, no. I don't believe I am using this language you speak of. In fact, quite the opposite. You suddenly switched to my dialect."

Her hand rose to her mouth instinctively, her eyes wide. "W . . . What . . . did you . . . say?" She finished her sentence weakly, fully aware that she was talking in the same tongue as the man opposite, one she knew she had never learnt.

"But . . . but how . . . ?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. You are quite interesting. Where did you come from?"

"I . . . I . . . far away. I come from far away."

"I can tell." He raised an eyebrow. "Can you be more specific?"

She gulped. Somewhere along the line, she had come to the conclusion that something was not right. Something about her entire situation. Although she had never directly acknowledged the strange, dare she say it, supernatural events that had occurred at their tournaments and that aways seemed to involve Yugi, his crew and those scary, hideously overdone 'Millenium Items', she was no fool. She was aware of the fact that some kind of spirit inhabited each of the items her friends possessed, apparently hailing from ancient Egypt. And she did remember the Items acting up and creating the current situation during the fight in the Champions' Box.

She chose not to answer and directed her eyes to the carpeted floor.

"Hm. Not talking?" His tone sent chills up her spine. "Perhaps your name, then?"

"Mai," she snapped quickly. "Mai Valentine."

"Huh." He grunted and leaned back. "Funny name. Although, it _is_ how I can tell you aren't lying. Strange appearance, strange name."

Look whose talking, she thought, but didn't dare voice.

"Care to tell me where you were heading?" He took another swig from the flask.

"I . . . was lost."

"Lost, huh? Maybe you were traveling with someone else? Someone we should know about?"

She stared at him, completely confused. "What do you mean?"

And all the warning she had was the whisper of the blade being drawn from its sheath as he pressed the razor-sharp tip directly over her jugular. She jerked in shock, eyes widening in panic.

"Care to tell me now?" His eyes were dark, cold, and she knew, in that moment, that this man would not hesitate to slit her throat.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said clearly, the slightest waver in her voice.

"Oh, you don't?" His voice was soft, frightening. "So there aren't any of your band waiting just over the dunes ahead to perform a daring rescue? I can tell you're not a threat . . . if you were one if _his_, I'd have a dagger in my belly right now. And you carry yourself all wrong. So what are you? Did they send one of their whores for a diversion?"

"Listen, buddy, I don't know what the hell you're going on about . . . "

"Buddy?"

"Whatever, look, whoever is trying to rescue . . . I don't know, well, someone, I'm not with them. Got it? I'm just lost and alone and looking for my friend, Kaiba. You seen someone of that name? I swear, that's all I . . . "

"Silence, woman!"

The blade lowered, marginally. She let out a breath, gulping deeply. Somewhere, outside, someone began to laugh. Deep, hysterical, manic laughs. Laughs that almost drowned out the sound of the swish and crack of a striking whip. For some reason, the sound made her blood run cold.

"What . . . what is that? What's that noise?"

He considered her expressionlessly as the rasping, insane laughter rose in volume and showed no sign of ceasing. He rose, sheathing the sword and crooked a finger for her to follow.

"Come and see for yourself."

Outside, the laughter rose in a terrifying crescendo, wild, harsh, breaking after every crack of the whip.

**A/N: **Two cliffhangers! What more could one ask for? ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic :)

**Chapter 3**

In palace, in the left wing, in the High Priest's chambers, two tall, imposing men, almost identical in appearance faced each other. The one dressed in blue and gold robes had an arm outstretched, a slim gold rod pointing stright into the face of the other. Between the two stood the slight figure of Mahad, arms spread wide to either side, creating a kind of human shield between the stranger and his own colleague. Mana took a step forward, but, seeing the expression on Seth's face, thought better of it.

"Seth, stop. This course of action will solve nothing."

Like the man behind Mahad, Seth seemed to have eyes for nothing but his strangely dressed counterpart. "Get away from him, Mahad."

"Seth, we have to question him . . . "

"Question him?"

Mahad flinched at the unbridled fury burning in the High Priest's eyes. Seth was not reknowned for his patience, but he was sure he had never seen him this enraged.

"He's an imposter!" Seth's eyes narrowed as he took in the strange man's appearance and he snarled. "How dare you, you . . . "

He was interrupted by the very cause of his anger in a way that made Mana cringe. _Holy Ra . . . _

The man had stepped past Mahad, pushing him out of the way unceremoniously and faced Seth head on, his expression equally dangerous.

"Imposter? _I'm_ an imposter? My name is Seto Kaiba and I'll have you know that I'm the most powerful business man in Japan! Now, I don't know how you crackpots got hold of me or why _you _look like me, but let me tell you something. No amount of genetic engineering bullshit or play-acting is going to keep me here in your little costume party. I'm leaving. Try and stop me."

Seth looked as if he was slowly being filled with boiling water. "Japan? Ge . . genticular engineering? _Costume party?_ WHO IN THE NAME OF RA DO YOU _THINK _YOU ARE?"

"What are you? Some kind of relic from the swinging sixties? Who the hell hasn't heard of genetic engineering? Or _me _for that matter?"

"I've never heard of you!" Seth snapped, "And neither has anyone else here! Now explain exactly how you ended up here and why, or so help me Isis, I _will _send your soul to the shadows. "

The man who had introduced himself as 'Kaiba' sneered in a way that almost made Mana's jaw drop. _They're like twins . . . _

"Shadows, huh? So you've bought into all that supernatural crap Yugi and his band of loyal mind-slaves waves about under my nose. Let's get one thing straight. I. DO. NOT. BELIEVE. IN. MAGIC. End of fairy tale. Yes, morons, this is the part where Tinkerbell drops dead."

So saying, Kaiba spun on his heel and headed for the door. And so he missed Seth's arm rise again and the gleam of smug satisfaction in his look-alike's eyes as the twisting tendrils of shadow magic wrapped around his long frame and sent him crashing to the floor. He also missed Mahad mouthing 'Tinkerbell' with a look of amazement on his face.

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Stepping out of the shade of the wagon was like being tossed into a furnace once more. Despite the drink she'd managed to have, Mai still felt slightly light-headed and stumbled as she exited. The soldier grasped her arm firmly, not tight enough to hurt, but with a 'reassuring' squeeze that told her he would not hesitate to do so if she tried to escape.

"Geez, old man, I'm not going anywhere."

He looked at her strangely. "You will address me as Khalid. What kind of country did you come from where you show such disrespect to men?"

Mai bristled immediately. "Look, buddy, where I come from, respect is not given out like doughnuts. You earn it. Same goes for any man. And believe me, there's many of those who don't deserve any kind of respecting."

He frowned. "Why do you say that?"

She let out a humourless bark of laughter. "I've had my ass squeezed by 'respectable' men wanting a little something under the table more times than I can count."

He grunted. "And do you provide such services?"

She stared back at him, annoyed. "What kind of girl do you take me for? And are you going to tell me what that noise is? It's really creeping me . . . "

Her words were abruptly cut off as they rounded the edge of the last caravan and Mai saw exactly where the maddened laughter and whipping sounds had been coming from.

"What the hell," she breathed.

There was a man, kneeling, chained to the rear of the caravan. A huge iron collar, carved with impossbly complex runes and symbols, curved over his heavily bowed neck and shoulders, amost shielding them completely from view and a similar pair of shackles held his wrists in place to the chain, which she could see, was as thick as one of her legs. One of the riders or soldiers (she found it hard to distinguish) was standing over him, a vicious looking dried animal-hide whip in his hand. The soldier in question had stripped down to the waist, sweat pouring from his shouders and back, and from his expression, Mai could see that he looked anything but pleased even though he was the one administering the punishment. Her glance traveled back to the battered, bloody man, who had stopped his hysterical laughing when they had made their appearance, and she gasped, before spinning on her heel and confronting her captor.

"_What_ do you think you're doing, buster? Let go of this guy right now, you hear me! How could you . . . _how could you do this?"_

Khalid's eyes narrowed dangerously. "So . . . I was right. You are here for a rescue . . . " There was a collective noise of shock as Mai stepped forward, her finger stabbing him hard in the chest.

"Rescue? You bet I am, you damned hypocrite! Look at you, going on about showing respect to men when you can chain an old man to the back of a caravan, drag him through the desert and whip him senseless!"

A profound silence greeted this statement. Khalid gazed at her, his look completely uncomprehending. "Old . . . man?"

Mai gestured wildly at the kneeling figure, her voice rising in frustration at this man's stupidity. "Yeah, since we're speaking the same language, I don't think it's too hard to understand. Look at him! His hair is completely white, he must be at least eighty! And you think it's okay to treat him like this? This is completely . . . _inhumane_!"

The silence that expanded around them seemed to grow even deeper and Mai turned to the rest of the assembled soldiers, her face red and crumpled with rage. "You're MONSTERS! All of you! Burn in hell, motherfu . . . hey!"

Her arm was jerked abruptly as Khalid seized her and dragged her without another word to the other side of the wagon, out of sight of the others. He slammed her up against the side, ignoring her growl and her fierce struggling. Catching hold of her face, he forced her to stay still, meeting her furious gaze with one of incredulity.

"Old man?"

She spat in his face in reply. He wiped away the saliva, unaffected. To her utter disbelief, he began to laugh. And laughed. Then paused to wipe away the tears that had collected at the corners of his eyes. And laughed some more. Despite the fact that her outrage had not died down in the slightest, Mai was beginning to have the strange feeling that she was missing something important.

"What . . . what the hell are you laughing at? You think this is funny?"

"But of course. And you should too, now that you've proven your innocence," he chuckled, releasing her.

Mai stared at him, bewildered. "Huh? What's going on? What did I just prove?"

"That you are not one of that man's subordinates. Very lucky for you."

Mai scoffed. "Yeah, whatever. So you're letting me go? Just like that?"

He regarded her through half-closed lids and she was highly discomforted by the calculating gleam that had returned. "No . . . not immediately."

She took a deep breath. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"Where would you go, in that state? You have no food, no water. This desert continues for miles. Unless you know in which direction to travel, you could go for weeks without encountering a soul. Assuming you survive that long."

"So . . . you're going to help me?" she asked, hesitantly.

"After a fashion." His smile remained, but his eyes grew harder. "You are a very lovely young woman, that's plain to see. Even though you look rather . . . _unusual_, there are many traders that pay good prices for unique goods."

Something inside her froze in sudden uncertainty and fear. "Traders? What the heck are you talking about?"

"Slave traders, my dear," he enunciated slowly and carefully. "I think I shall supplement my income very nicely with you."

The sound of the slap resounded all through the caravan and one or two of the soldiers looked out to check the situation before reassuring themselves that all was well. Khalid turned his face slowly back to the heavily breathing woman. She was shaking like a leaf, giving away her true fright despite her jutting chin and fierce look. Her voice was low and thick with emotion.

"There is no way, _no way in heaven or hell_, that I am going to be bartered like an animal. I'd rather die."

"Then keep resisting, woman. It will ensure your death, one way or another. I am only offering you the easy way out." He swept coldly past her, drawing his cape around him once again. When he was out of sight she sank against the side of the caravan, burying her face between her knees. One fist thumped the ground. _Great. Wonderful, Valentine. Why? Why me? _She looked up, a sudden thought striking her. _And Kaiba? Where was he? She had been certain that he had come through when . . . that had happened. _

She'd seen his face, his cool facade cracking completely as he was pulled backwards into darkness. _Unless . . . unless he had been sent somewhere different? But where? And how was she to get back?_

When the soldier assigned to guard her came to take her away, she did not resist. To any outsider it would look as if all the fight had gone out of her. But they couldn't be more mistaken. If there was something Mai Valentine did not lack, it was survival skill. Her habit of living for the present had allowed her to get out of some pretty tight situations. And she'd be damned if a couple of sweaty man riding camels and wielding swords were going to get the better of her.

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"Shut up! I'm trying to think!"

"You shut it, moron! And undo this . . . this hocus-pocus . . . "

"SHADOW MAGIC!" Seth looked about ready to rip the hair off his skull, "It. is. called. _shadow magic_."

"Seth," Mahad cut in, sighing in exasperation, "don't you think we should bring him . . ."

"He's not going anywhere," said the High Priest sharply, "I will question him myself, with yourself and your apprentice serving as witnesses, and then present our case to the Pharaoh."

"Pharaoh?" Kaiba looked up, annoyance crossing his face briefly, "What Pharaoh?"

"The divinely appointed monarch of Upper Egypt and its lands and people, you scum. So show some respect."

"Seth, maybe I should question him," Mahad cut in again. Seth looked as if he were about to protest, but his meticulous logic told him that this was probably the correct decision to make. He glanced at Kaiba with disgust only to have the look returned full force. It irked the High Priest far more than he would ever admit that the man could still manage to retain that air of supercilliousness and command even though he was trussed up like a swine on the floor.

"Fine. Go ahead. But be careful what you say to him."

Kaiba snorted. "Bring on the next clown, then. And make it snappy, my brother will be waiting for me and I refuse to worry him on any account."

"You have a brother?" Mahad asked curiously, "Is he here, too?"

"I hope to God he isn't."

With a quelling glance at Seth, Mahad continued his line of questioning calmly.

"So, to cover what we know thus far, your name is Seto Kaiba, you are a man of business and you have a brother, whereabouts unknown. Where are you from, exactly?"

"I cannot answer your question without knowing where I am at the present moment. It logically follows that I can only tell you where I'm from in relation to this place, since you obviously know nothing about Japan."

"Japan? That is true, I've never heard of such a place. You are currently in the Royal palace at Thebes, residence of his Majesty, Atem, current successor to the throne and Pharaoh of Egypt. Perhaps you are not familiar with our customs? He is our King and most benevolent ruler . . . "

"Yeah, yeah, I know what a King is."

Mahad's eyes widened slightly and Seth hissed in fury behind him.

"Seto Kaiba, if you are to stay within these walls, you will refer to our Pharaoh with utmost respect, are we clear?" chided Mahado gently. When no reply was forthcoming, he decided to take that as an affirmative and continued. "Now, you appeared to myself and my apprentice under very unusual circumstances . . . "

"What circumstances?" asked Kaiba, suddenly very alert.

"You fell out of the sky," chirped Mana, a trifle bluntly.

"What nonsense," he snapped, "That's physically impossible."

"But certainly possible through those forces you seem . . . _so opposed to_," sneered Seth.

Kaiba gritted his teeth. No matter what his mind told him, there was no denying the presence of the swirling bands of dark energy holding him firmly in place. "Look," he said, "I don't know why I ended up here, or how. All I know is that one minute I'm holding that stupid Rod, and the next, I'm falling through into . . . somewhere. And then I woke up here. That's it."

"Wait a minute, what Rod?" Seth came forward, frowning deeply.

"The same one in your hand, apparently," was the dry reply.

Mana gasped and Mahad looked between them in consternation. Seth had turned very pale, making him resemble the restrained man even more. "That's impossible."

"No, it isn't. Because here I am," said Kaiba, in the tone of someone addressing a two year old. "And Valentine was sent here with me. I saw her. So I have to find her and then you'll just have to use the Rod to send us back."

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Later, when the caravan stopped for the night and a few campfires had been lit, she asked the guard if she could relieve herself. He nodded and stood aside, shadowing her closely. She noted that the security assigned to her own 'cell' was rather lax, in comparison to the timed patrols and regular checks performed in other areas of the wagon. As far as she had been able to ascertain, they were transporting prisoners. The man chained to the back was the only one she had seen, though. According to her observations and sharp hearing, he was removed from the centre caravan and tortured or flogged every few hours. Always accompanied by his hysterical, defiant laughter.

Something within her stirred when she heard that. She had no idea how such an elderly man could possibly survive such treatment, but to be laughing in the face of it . . . he had either lost his mind completely or had more courage in his little finger than she had in her entire body. And despite the horror of it, despite the tears that pricked at her eyes every time she heard his screams, it lent her a little more determination.

When they passed the rear of the caravan, she saw that the prisoner had been chained outside once again, probably being forced to bear the biting cold of the desert night in nothing but what appeared to be the tattered loin cloth she had seen him kneeling in earlier. Her guard stopped a few paces from the edge of the caravan, to give her some privacy, and warned her not to go further than he could see. It was not as if she had anywhere to run to anyway.

Making sure that none of the other sentries were anywhere near her, she hiked up her skirt and did her business, thanking heaven for the wad of tissues she always carried in her handbag. They had let her have it back after a thorough search, having found no dangerous items. They had taken her small cellphone, though, probably because it had been deemed an unknown item and thus, risky.

On her way back she saw that the sentries for the rear of the caravan were still out of sight, probably just over the sand dunes ahead, and her own guard was distracted, standing beyond the edge of the caravan, conversing with one of his comrades. Carefully, she navigated her way back, making sure to pass close to the still, dark hump that was the prisoner at the back. She saw him stir slightly and looked at him through the corner of her eye, keeping her face trained forward.

"I'll get you out of here, I swear it," she hissed in a fierce whisper, "Those bitches won't break you. Or me."

And she rounded the corner of the cart, frowning slightly as she thought about that dark, huddled figure. Shrugging off the uncomfortable feeling, she climbed up into the wagon, past her sentry, and curled into herself. For the merest second, she could have sworn she had caught a flash of moonlight on dark, burning, watchful eyes. Eyes too sharp and bright to be those of an old man.

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**A/N: **A quick update, hehe. I'm on a roll with this one . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any other Yugioh character portrayed in this fic

**Chapter 4**

The silence that filled the Champion's Box gaped deeper than one of Joey's yawns. Yugi stood stock still, one hand clutched convulsively around the Millenium Puzzle. The taller boy was pacing in circles, hair disshevelled and standing up in golden cow-licks where he had run his fingers through it.

"Yug . . . Yug, man dis is bad. Real bad. Where'd dey go? How . . . how? Where's Mai? Oh man, oh man, oh man . . . "

"Joseph, calm down."

Joey spun on his heel, nearly stumbling over. "Huh?"

He stared at the slightly taller, solid frame and narrow, determined gaze of his friend and made the obvious connection.

"Oh. It's you."

"Yes, me. We need to inform Mokuba Kaiba of these developments immediately."

"Wait, you sure 'bout dat? The kid'll freak if he knows his bro went . . . "

"We have no other choice, Joey. And Mokuba Kaiba is Vice President of Kaibacorp. I have complete faith in his ability to both assess and handle the situation."

Joey shrugged doubtfully. "S'pose so. Aw, man, Yami Yug, you have any idea what might have happened to 'em?"

The former Pharaoh frowned. "I might have an idea. I'm not entirely clear on this, though. And Mokuba needs to be here when we discuss it."

"Hey, dey in any kinda danger?"

"No, not if I can help it. Although the circumstances are highly unusual . . . "

Joey stared intently at him, panic growing behind his brown eyes. "What's dat? Unusual in what way?"

The Pharaoh met his gaze with a grim smile. "Unusual for a shadow game, Joseph."

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A profound silence, more vast and far more expressive, filled the audience hall of the palace at Thebes. All seven of the royally appointed high priests were present, along with the Pharaoh, the apprentice, Mana, and one Seto Kaiba. The latter was currently standing at the foot of the dais, jaw grinding in pure frustration, as the occupants of the dais regarded him as they would a sheep they were sizing up at the market. Then they began to speak and Kaiba had to restrain himself from reaching across the narrow space and bashing all of their over-dressed heads together.

"Remarkable."

"Indeed."

"An almost exact likeness."

"Handsome young man, isn't he? Fine, upstanding posture . . . "

"Hush, Seth might hear you . . . "

"Exception of the skin. He must hail from a considerably colder climate."

"Hmph. Or simply not spend enough time outdoors. He's certainly a lot scrawnier that Seth over there . . . "

"What curious apparel!"

"Seth's statement indicated that he was a man of business. A merchant of some sort. Maybe that's standard uniform."

"Look at this strangely coloured object they obtained from him. It's quite harmless . . . just makes noises when you press it. Do you think he's in the entertainment or conjuring trade?"

"More like weapon trade. Look at him scowling."

"Now, now, he's just a youngster . . ."

Seth, who had been standing to the side, cleared his throat noisily. "My Pharaoh? What pronouncement do you make on the imposter?"

Atem was thoughtfully examining the colourful object, a.k.a. cellphone, they had taken from Kaiba, turning it over between his fingers. "I have some questions for him, if you don't mind, Seth."

"My Prince, we've already asked him . . . "

"That's true. Nevertheless, there are some things I would like to hear from him."

The young Pharaoh leaned forward in his throne and examined Seth closely. "Hm. Remarkable. Tell me, Seto Kaiba, how is it that you resemble the High Priest Seth to such a great degree?"

"I really have no idea."

"_Your Majesty_," hissed Seth in outrage, his imposing height seeming to grow even more as he stared Kaiba down.

"Fine. I really have no idea. Your Majesty."

Atem cocked his head, face serious, but eyes dancing slightly. Seth didn't like that face. He recognised it from their sparring days.

"Tell me, Kaiba, why do you not afford me my title, even when you were asked to?"

Like the shrewd man he was, Kaiba retreated behind caution. "I apologise, your Highness. Where I come from, the power afforded to national leaders is often a front for the sake of maintaining unity. The men with the most power are the ones who remain discrete."

Atem nodded slowly. "I see. But I, too, have an observation to make. You do not look like the kind of man who is accustomed to showing deference to any kind of authority figure, let alone the truly powerful."

Kaiba took in a sharp breath and raised his eyes. Atem was smiling.

"If my guess is correct, Seto Kaiba, _you _were the one who wielded the power and influence. And yet, you told us that you were a man of business. How is this so?"

"I told the truth," Kaiba squared his shoulders and looked his questioner in the eye, "'Man of business' is but a general description. Your power and influence, as Pharaoh of this nation, come from divine right. In my country, such things come to one . . . under different circumstances."

"So wealth determines power?"

_God, he's a sharp one_. "Yes, that's right."

"Your Majesty, if I may?" Mahad had been eyeing the cellphone ever since they had first gotten hold of it. "May I ask Kaiba what the purpose of that object is?"

"Of course." Atem passed the phone across to Mahad who held it up and looked at Kaiba eagerly.

"That's a cellphone," said Kaiba, stiffly.

"A . . . cellphone?"

The CEO sighed. He was fully aware of the effects of tampering with the timeline. But quite frankly, he was beyond caring. All he wanted was to get back to Mokuba. And if they made little 'cellphone' hieroglyphics and put them up there with all those unexplained flying saucer carvings, then so be it.

"Yes. It's a communication device."

"Who would you communicate with?"

"Another cellphone user."

"Are they common, where you come from?"

"Just about everyone has them."

"Indeed."

Mahad resumed his examination of the phone while Seth stepped forward. "Kaiba, you mentioned a brother?"

Atem noted how the man straightened slightly, the sudden flicker of emotion behind his cold eyes.

"Yes. He is not here. He is in Japan. I have to get back to him as soon as possible."

"And you mentioned someone else who came with you."

Kaiba paused, looking slightly uncertain, but then shook his head and frowned. "I'm sure she is here somewhere. Mai Valentine. A woman from Japan who was also transported with me by accident."

Seth took a breath and turned away from him. "I would also like you to inform the council of the manner in which you were transported here."

Kaiba smirked at his look-alike's ramrod straight back. "Why, of course. I was sent here with the Millenium Rod."

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It was on the third night of her captivity that she decided to put her escape plan into action. If she had known how that night would have eventually turned out, she would have simply hidden away in a corner, covered herself with a rug and thought pleasant, bittersweet thoughts about Joey and their eventual anticlimatic reunion, safe until the horror was over. But she did not know, and so, she plotted and planned and _acted_.

She could not deny that she was excited. Terrified, yes. After all, swords were not a patch on guns, but it wasn't as if she had a gun. And cold metal through the guts was a sensation she would avoid at all costs if she could. But the thrill of flight, of the unknown, of that sudden feeling where your stomach swoops right down between your Jimmy Choo's, that was the risk she lived for. _No flaws in this plan, Valentine._

The prisoner, despite the fact that he was obviously old and had been under immense strain for heaven knew how long, was a native to wherever they were. So, it naturally followed, he would know roughly the direction in which to go. Getting free, along with him, however, was the least of her worries. She had to do it such that they would not be followed and before they encountered the slave traders. Mai knew that whoever she was 'sold' to would do a far better job keeping her secure than her current traveling companions were. She had not spoken to Khalid since their last disagreement, although she had seen him give her a dismissive glance now and then when their paths crossed. Now that she was no longer a threat and a mere 'woman' and source of potential income, she was no longer of much interest to him. Although this riled her, she was somewhat thankful.

And so, when night fell, Mai followed her guard obediently to the campfire where the evening meal was being prepared. She made a show of sauntering into the circle of firelight, the cloak they had given her as protection against the night chill doing little to hide her ample bosom and swaying hips. She had guessed that the men who accompanied the caravan, as serving soldiers, had seen very little woman in the course of their journey, unless you counted the female lizards that sometimes scuttled out from under their feet. And she had guessed right. More than one pair of eyes followed her progress to the warmth of the fire.

She stretched out, allowing the cloak to fall away from her knees, while mentally thanking her lucky stars for that drunk hotel owner in Vegas who had paid for the full laser treatment on her legs. There were some uncomfortable shuffles around her.

_My, oh my, aren't we restless, boys._

She leant forward, catching the eye of the man stirring their broth. She smiled coyly. He smiled back, hesitantly.

_Ha. Yeah, I'd like to see _you _try to resist Mai Valentine's patented 'I'm-oh-so-shy-you-retarded-sucker' smile._

She pouted and the man's eyes immediately fell to her lips. "Are we having that boring gruel _again_?" she whined, one finger stroking the rim of the warming pot.

"Uh . . . we're having stew."

She giggled and something about her laugh made the hapless stew-brewer feel like a very humourous man indeed.

"Well," he scratched his neck awkwardly, "there isn't much else . . . "

"What?" Her eyes opened, round and wide and lovely in the flickering firelight. "Not even some spices?"

"Those are for the Captain's private stores."

"Oh come on." She playfully tapped his arm, letting her fingers linger for just slightly longer than necessary. "Surely he won't mind just this once. I'm sure your comrades will appreciate it too."

"Woman, I am not able to . . . "

"Please?" Her voice was a sultry purr. Her long eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings. The stew-brewer promptly lost his willpower.

"You tell nobody about this, you hear?" he scolded as he rose, in a futile attempt at reasserting some authority.

"Of course not," she whispered. She gave a sensuous smile and pressed one finger against her lips in the universal gesture of 'keeping mum'. As soon as his back was turned, she scoped out the rest of the assembled troops. The guards patrolling to the left of the caravan would soon make a shift change with those seated around the fire. With the absence of the man watching the pot, that shift change would be her opening. She noted their approach.

_Come on, come on, faster, faster, you dickheads._

The men around the campfire rose, one or two giving one last appreciative glance at her legs. She gave a strained smile in return.

_Come on, come on . . ._

In that one golden moment, all turned their backs on her. And for the first time in her life, Mai thanked heaven for chronic insomnia as she dropped the entire bottle of very, very potent sleeping pills into the stew-pot. The cook returned with a small array of spices in his cloak, giving her a hesitant smile. She smiled back broadly.

_Nighty night, boys._

Oh, how she would kick herself for this later. They ate hungrily. She wasn't sure if everyone had partaken, but even if they hadn't, a pursuit would be impossible to mount if more than half their force was hampered by falling out of the saddle. She only hoped that the dosage wouldn't be too diluted by the volume of liquid in the pot. When she returned to her wagon, she lay still for what seemed like hours, listening until the breathing of her guard turned heavy and steady. Emerging cautiously, handbag and cloak safely secured, she made her way stealthily past his slumped, sleeping form to the rear wagon. She bit her lip in consternation when she saw that the prisoner was absent.

_Dammit. Why tonight?_

Calming herself, she retraced her steps, stopping just before the centre wagon. If he wasn't out there, then surely . . . A sudden movement caught her attention and she darted backwards, pressing herself against the side of the wagon, heart pounding. When no danger was forthcoming she looked around cautiously and let out a breath of relief. It was only the stationed watchmen for the prisoner's wagon. His foot had shifted. She was about to bypass him, when a flash of something bright on his belt caught her attention.

It was a strangely shaped metal object, with odd carvings and projections along its length. Almost like a . . ._ a key! _The carvings matched those on the prisoner's shackles! Stooping, she slipped the key free of its various fastenings, holding her breath every time the man shifted. Finally it came loose and she fisted the air silently.

The entrance of the prisoner's wagon was dark, a foul smell emanating from the interior. Mai knew that she herself was in need of a serious shower, but this was . . . _Bastards, torturing an old man this way._ Pushing aside the leathery overhang, Mai couldn't help but feel a strange sense of foreboding, something like walking into a lion's den. Chiding herself for her overactive imagination, she climbed up gingerly and stepped in.

"Hello?"

There was no reply. She squinted, eyes growing accustomed to the pitch black interior.

"Psst, it's me. I'm here to get you out. They're all asleep, I drugged the chow."

She advanced further, hands outstretched.

"Where the hell are you, buddy?"

A movement in the corner. She came forward slowly. "Hey, it's okay. It's just me, the other jailbird. I'm gonna get you outta here, old man."

A clinking of chains and he was suddenly visible, his crouched outline edging forward slowly. She smiled. "That's right, take it easy. I'm gonna get us both out. Look, I got the key off the guard. Let's get those god awful chains away from you. Here, show me where the keyhole is."

He stretched his arms out silently and in the dim ray of moonlight coming through the slightly parted canvas, she saw the hole where the key could be inserted between his wrists. Kneeling, she slotted the metal rod in, twisting right first, meeting resistance, then left. A satisfying click echoed through the caravan. She frowned.

"Wait, where's the key for your neck?"

He was silent. She swore at her own stupidity. _Of course. More than one key. Khalid would have it._

"We're gonna find that key, sweetie pie. Now follow me. Quiet now. We gotta get food and water, then you need to remember the way to the nearest town for me. Got it?"

She saw him nod, his white hair moving up and and down. _Good so far_. She turned back to the opening and crawled forward, feeling him follow her. She slipped down from the wagon and was about to turn to help the old man out when she felt the tip of a sword press to her throat and a rough hand grasp her shoulder, tugging her painfully forward. Her eyes widened as they met the reddened, furious gaze of Khalid.

_Oh . . . damn. _She was stupid. So utterly stupid. 'Captain's stores', that cook had said. Of course Khalid's food would be prepared separately from the rest of his men. He _was _the fucking captain.

"You _bitch_!" he spat, "What did you do? I knew it, I _knew _you couldn't be trusted!"

"Oh yeah? Why'd you let me run around then, tubby?" she snapped, far more bravely than she felt.

He jerked her fiercely. "What were you doing in there? What did you do?"

"Nothing! I . . . "

"TELL THE TRUTH!"

Throwing caution to the winds she screamed. If she couldn't get away, then it didn't mean he couldn't. "Run! Go old man! Run for it!"

"What? . . . " Khalid's eyes snapped over her shoulder to the opening of the caravan and Mai saw his eyes widen, the blood leave his face. He let out a soft strangled noise. "You fool . . . " he whispered.

There was a soft thump behind her, the sound of someone hopping down to the ground. Khalid dropped her, shoving her backwards, now hyperventilating and drawing his sword with a quick motion, holding it out in a ready position before him. Mai stumbled backwards into something warm and very solid. Turning in confusion, she was met with the sight of skin, dark brown skin, small white scars criss-crossing across a very broad, very muscular torso. She took a step back. And another. And looked up, up into blazing, bottomless slate-blue eyes that caught and held her like a deer in headlights. A vicious looking scar crossed the right eye, all down to the cheek bone. And his hair. White hair.

_Holy crap._

Then he smiled. The widest, sharpest, most frightening smile she had ever seen. The voice that emerged from behind that twisted smile was deep, nightmareishly harsh the rumbling purr of a wild panther.

"Actually, I think I'll stay. Step aside and let an old man do his job, _sweetie pie._"

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**A/N: **Haha, another fast update :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic.

**A/N: **A short thank you to Shantih, LiteraryMuffin and FFNRocks as well as the other reviewers of this story. Your input inspires me and spurs me on to keep writing. Not to mention that I'm having a ball writing it ;)

**Chapter 5**

Mokuba Kaiba certainly lived up to their expectations. And more. When they first broke the news to him, Joey had seen the boy's eyes widen, the fear and worry for his beloved older brother very apparent. He had wanted to step forward, comfort the kid, tell him all would be okay and that Yami Yugi would handle the 'supernatural' side of things. What he had not expected was for a miniature version of his one and only rival to emerge minutes after finding out the situation.

And now they were seated in the head office of Kaibacorp with Mokuba at the reins, a little, dark-haired whirlwind of cool professionalism and mindboggling efficiency. He had wrapped up the tournament, created a plausible excuse for the sudden absence of his brother, got Yugi to present awards and prizes and even gave a small, well-rehearsed speech on behalf of Kaibacorp. The tournament had closed with various shows and entertainment, which, needless to say, they had not stayed for. Mokuba had brought them straight up to the office, politely requesting that they be patient for a little while longer as he sorted through the various statistics and ran the financial prediction algorithms through his immediate staff.

After an hour, when the last lackey had exited the imposing double doors, Mokuba ran over to the couch where they had waited patiently (at least, in the Pharaoh's case) and the worried little boy was back.

"So, Yami Yugi," he began hesitantly.

"Yami will do," said the Pharaoh kindly.

Mokuba nodded. "All right, Yami. What happened to my brother and Mai and where are they now?"

"I can't say for sure, Mokuba, but what I am certain of is that your brother initiated a Shadow Game and that Mai was taken in with him."

The boy's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "M . . . My brother . . . ? But how? Seto never believed in all the . . . uh . . . "

"Shadow magic? No, he did not. But unfortunately for him, it exists. Furthermore, he has the ability to both harness and control that power. However, by choosing to reject that heritage and pin it down to illusion, he inadvertantly trapped himself in a shadow game of his own devising."

"Huh?" was Joey's succinct response.

"Please explain," said Mokuba faintly.

"As I recall, your brother's exact words to Yugi were 'to convince him of his so-called heritage and he would never question him again'. While doing so, he pointed the Millenium Rod at Yugi, another Item holder, and issued what the shadow magic interpreted as a challenge. And so, the Puzzle responded in the only way it can. It cast your brother into a kind of complex shadow game. If my guess is right, Kaiba will only be able to find his way back once he has 'been convinced of his heritage'."

Mokuba turned a shade paler and groaned. "In other words, my brother has to accept shadow magic."

The Pharaoh nodded sagely. "Not only that, he must come to terms with his position as rightful holder of the Millenium Rod. In other words, accept that he is the reincarnation, or future projection, of Seth, High Priest and former advisor to the Pharaoh."

Mokuba's silent look of horror spoke volumes. It was Joey who gave vent to what all of their subconscious voices had been telling them.

"Goddammit, we're doomed!"

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"Repeat yourself, please, Seto Kaiba."

Atem leaned forward, his eyes traveling between Seth and Kaiba. The former had schooled his face into an unnaturally stiff lack of readability while the latter had folded his arms and assumed a posture that could only be described as cocky.

"Pharaoh, I was sent here via the Millenium Rod."

"Seth?"

"Highness, that is impossible. The Rod is under my constant supervision. I would know if it had been used by another or had left my possession for even a second."

Atem looked back at Kaiba for an answer. He seemed entirely unruffled. "I never said it was the same Millenium Rod."

Seth's expressionless state rapidly devolved into bewilderment and outrage. "Wh . . . what was that? You imbecile! There is only one of each of these items . . . "

"In this time, yes there is," countered Kaiba, loudly.

"What exactly are you saying, Kaiba?" asked Atem slowly.

"He's trying to imply that he's from another time!" thundered Seth, "Entirely implausible, since such a transfer between planes is impossibly complex and cannot be achieved simply by accident!"

"And yet, here I am!" Kaiba was livid now, "Explain that, Mr. Omniscient!"

"Silence!"

The argument died in its tracks. Both men turned to the figure on the throne with a slow, deliberate motion that had the rest of the room's occupants blink at the slight sense of deja-vu.

"Kaiba, do you have any proof of your claims?"

He scoffed, one hand nonchalantly inserting into the pocket of his white business suit. "Of course I do. See that cellphone? Can any metalwork you know of produce a product so advanced?"

"No," said Atem calmly, "But you indicated that it is a communication device. If you cannot prove that this is the function it performs, I'm afraid that it cannot count for evidence."

"For heaven's sake!" Kaiba took a step forward in disbelief, "Can't you believe the evidence presented by your own eyes? Listen, Pharaoh, my brother is worried. He can handle business affairs, but the longer I take to get back, the more scared and alone he's going to . . . "

"And we appreciate the gravity of your situation . . . " began Seth.

"No," Kaiba hissed through gritted teeth "_No you do not!_"

Something in his voice caused the High Priest to stop dead, eyes widening slightly. Mahad, looking rapidly between the two, stood abruptly. "My Pharaoh, I think we should enter Council and make our decision with regard to the course of action we should take."

"Indeed." Atem had not missed the strange exchange and nodded distractedly. "Mana, conduct Seto Kaiba to his chambers. Seth, accompany them and return immediately."

"Yes, my Pharaoh." Seth turned without another word, without watching to see if they were following and left the council chambers.

He never should have accompanied them. It was a thought that came to him immediately after . . . that incident. It was not something one expects, after all. Not even after hearing that note of emotion in his look-alike's voice.

They had almost reached the guest chambers (to be guarded closely, of course) when a voice called out to them, a child's voice. Merawhat, Seth's young page-in-training came hurtling through the corridor they had just passed, flinging himself to the ground behind the High Priest.

"Honourable High Priest! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Your cloaks came back from the seamstress and . . . and . . . I'm sorry! They hemmed them wrong and now . . . they're too short and I measured and they'll never reach your ankles and . . . "

Hissing in annoyance, Seth was about to berate the young page when - "MOKUBA!"

High Priest and appretice both stared on in shock and disbelief as Kaiba strode past them, dropping to his knees before the gobsmacked child, grasping his shoulders as if afraid he would disappear.

"Mokuba! I . . . I thought you were . . . what are you doing here? Where did you come from? I was so worried!"

Ignoring the gawping of the astonished page, whose eyes had turned wider and rounder when he had looked between Kaiba and Seth, the tall CEO flung his arms around the smaller figure and hugged him fiercely. There was a long pause, during which Seth recovered himself and cleared his throat noisily, Mana didn't recover herself at all and Merawhat's expression morphed from astonishment to fright and then to a strange, not unpleasant confusion.

"What do you think you are doing?" snapped Seth angrily.

Kaiba rose to his feet, one hand protectively placed on Merawhat's shoulder. "This is my brother! What's he doing here? Was this part of your . . . your shadow game thing?"

"That isn't your brother!"

Kaiba scoffed. "Just because you've dressed him differently, doesn't mean his identity undergoes a sudden change. And if any of you dare lay a finger on him . . . "

"Um . . . Kaiba?" Mana broke in cautiously, "That _really _isn't your brother. Ask him yourself."

"What?" Kaiba turned to Merawhat, "Mokuba, are you all right? How have they been treating you? Have you eaten? You look thinner . . . I swear, if they've been starving you . . . "

"I . . . I'm not . . . Mokuba," was his hesitant reply. The page looked petrified.

"There, you've heard it from him. Now enough of this nonsense. Get in that chamber so that I can return to the council!"

"Mokuba!" Kaiba was crouching again, hands placed on either side of the child's face, forcing him to meet his gaze, "Look at me. It's me, Seto. Your brother. Big brother. I'm here, it's okay, you don't have to say what they tell you to anymore. I'm right here, I'll protect you."

"B . . . but . . . I'm not . . . "

"Mokuba," Kaiba's voice was stern, "Stop this. Now tell me, how did you get here?"

Seth took an impatient step forward, but Mana placed a hand on his arm, looking slightly startled at her own bravery. She came up beside Merawhat, beckoning for him to rise. "Kaiba," she said, gently, "This is the page, Merawhat, who was born to a kitchen maid of this palace. I have known him his entire life, watched him grow up and serve the High Priest faithfully. He is not your brother. You are mistaken."

Kaiba stood again, towering over her, his cold fury washing over her like an arctic storm. "_Don't _," he hissed, "don't you dare tell me who my brother is and who he is not."

"I'm sorry!" yelped Merawhat, eyes closed in horror at his un-asked-for predicament. "But I am not your brother, honourable master!"

He opened one eye and looked up at Kaiba, and in that moment, the CEO knew that he spoke the truth. "No . . . " He stepped back, "No . . . I . . . I . . . Mokuba . . . "

And suddenly Seth saw a boy. Not the ferociously cool, logical and collected business man, but a boy in a business suit. One, whose sudden realisation that the child standing before them was not his brother, had lost something fundamental and deeper-running than any of them could know.

Kaiba stumbled back, away from them, into the waiting chamber. He seated himself in a wicker chair and simply stared, blankly, ahead. Seth stood in the doorway, suddenly unsure of himself.

"High Priest," Mana said, softly.

"I'm leaving," he said shortly. "Inform me of any new developments."

So saying, he turned on his heel and strode past her and the page, who promptly prostrated himself again. Neither of them had noted the strange, fleeting expression on the child's face as he looked back towards the room where the 'guest' sat. An expression, almost, of longing.

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Mai was a lucky girl, in many ways. She had beauty, wit, charm and mannerisms that had most men eating out of her palms. Up until recently, it was mainly luck and her own inventiveness that had kept her alive. In that moment, though, when she looked up into those eyes, _his_ eyes, she felt a profound sense of loss. As if all her luck had deserted her at the very sight of him. No ideas came to mind; no rapidly evolved, daredevil escape plans. She simply drew a blank. Although she had never stared down a cobra, she hypothesized that one could not get closer to such a sensation than this. It was his very presence, overpowering, hypnotic, vivid and suffocating with its poisonous vitality.

_Fuck. I'm going to die._

This was her only rational thought as she saw him reach for her, as if in slow motion, one large, rough hand circling her upper arm and throwing her aside like a ragdoll. Something moved past her head as he threw her, a soft whoosh that brushed straight through her flying hair. The world seemed to speed up again as she hurtled towards the ground, landing hard and rolling for some distance before she dug her nails into the sand and tugged herself to a jarring halt.

Looking up, the sight which met her eyes caused her to let out a stifled gasp. Khalid had lunged forward, sword directed slightly upwards towards the left side of the prisoner's ribcage, obviously aiming for his heart. However, the blade's motion had been arrested by the chains that the prisoner had brought with him instead of abandoning back in the wagon, like she had thought. He had flung the chains outwards, wrapping them securely around Khalid's sword. She felt the blood leave her face when she realised that he had pushed her out of harm's way; that slight movement in the air near her head had been Khalid's swordthrust.

_What the . . . _

The thought died in her mind as the combat playing out before her began in full force. Khalid had been tugging hard at his sword hilt, trying to get it free. With a quick, deft twist, the prisoner spun the chains once more, freeing him, so that he stumbled backwards, unbalanced. The Captain regained his footing a moment later, just in time to dodge a flailing blow from the prisoner that nearly took his eye out.

Mai saw that her 'old man' had wrapped the upper portion of the chains around his forearms, using the hefty, metal padlocks as a kind of mace. He whirled and swung, his ranged weapon striking out at Khalid from unpredictable directions. The skill and strength with which he wielded his makeshift weapon was breathtaking, and Mai found herself following his movements with a type of horrified fascination. Khalid resorted to defensive tactics, his attention focusing on the trajectory of the deadly, scything arcs. His experienced eye was looking for an opening, that was plain to see, the blade of his battle-worn weapon striking sparks off his opponent's.

A thin cloud of dust gathered around the two figures as they danced, feinting, lunging, swinging at each other, the low, flickering light of the dying campfire painting sweat-slicked limbs with a burnished glow. She could feel the pound of their footsteps in the earth beneath her feet, hear their grunts of effort, the sudden growls of pain and snarls of ferocity. She could smell the metallic, rusty warmth of blood as the prisoner's mace shot out, slashing the side of Khalid's face and Khalid lunged forward, shaking off the injury, blood flying from his temple in a fine mist as he scored a gash along the other's thigh. In an almost dream-like state, she watched with her heart in her mouth, noting how they fought. Khalid, like the veteran soldier he was, with quick, efficient movements, going for the weak spots like a bulldog for an exposed jugular, the tinge of desperation indicating that he was fighting at the absolute limit of his skill. That he knew he needed to kill before his own precariously balanced existance was snuffed like a candle. The prisoner, on the other hand, fought with reckless speed and agility, making full use of his considerable physical prowess, aiming to maim as well as kill. The heavy restraints around his neck did not seem to hamper him in the slightest as he herded Khalid into tight corners, eyes ablaze and mouth agape in a soundless laugh of mad delight, nostrils flaring as he were scenting the older man's death.

Mai placed her hands over her ears, crouching as she tried to shut out the endless violence, the brutality of what she was witnessing. She'd had no idea, no idea at all . . . _What have I done? What will I do? What will I do?_

And in a quick succession of blows, it was over. Khalid made a skilful move, catching the tip of his sword in one of the chain's links, twisting, slipping as close to the prisoner as possible and suddenly releasing himself, stabbing straight for the throat. Mai let out a small shriek, expecting a death blow, watching in disbelief as the white-haired man caught the naked sword with his bare hand. He gripped hard, blood leaking from between his fingers as he effectively trapped Khalid in a very open position. A wide, manic grin spread across the prisoner's face as the chain clinked, wrapping around his massive fist before it crashed into the soldier's face, dropping him like a lead weight. For a moment, Mai had a vision of two dark eyes in a bloody catastrophe of a face, giving her one last glance of hatred before the tall figure of the prisoner stooped, placed his hands to either side of Khalid's head and casually snapped his neck.

And then _his _eyes met hers and she couldn't move. Her terror was looming, irrational. It caught at her throat and left her choking, incapacitated. _Oh please, oh please God . . . _She managed to bring her hands back to awareness, her quivering legs and she pulled herself shakily upright. He was watching her, head cocked to one side, Khalid's lifeless body slumped between his feet. She was backing away, hands spread out in front of her, slipping and stumbing as her incoherent thoughts were given life in a voice that was barely her own.

"P . . . please, dont . . . Oh, God, . . . don't . . . don't hurt . . . _please _. . ."

Her entreaties died away to a horrified whisper as he came towards her, head still bent to the side slightly, his walk the loping prowl of a stalking tiger. The embers of the softly sparking fire illuminated the ripple of muscle under skin, the scars that stood out from the whippings and beatings of the slumbering soldiers. She was sobbing now, tears forming glistening tracks across the sand coating her skin as he came closer, ignoring her rising hysteria. She could smell the blood on him and now she couldn't breathe, her voice coming in hiccoughs and gasps as she scrambled fruitlessly away from his outstretched hand.

He caught hold of her shoulder and she screamed, over and over, flailing with her fists, knees, legs. He gave a small snort, grasped her wrists, bringing them together in the fist of one of his large hands and wrenched them above her head.

Then he slapped her. The hardest, roughest, most stinging slap she had ever received in her life. Her head snapped to the side, mouth hanging open in astonishment.

"Are you done screaming, you moronic bitch?" His voice was a rasp as he shook her threateningly.

Teeth chattering uncontrollably, she settled for nodding vigorously.

"Where's the water?"

"I . . . In th . . . the second . . .wag . . . "

Seemingly satisfied with her response, he dropped her unceremoniously and padded away towards the wagon indicated. Halfway there he stopped and turned his head to look partially across his shoulder. A low rumble of annoyance came from his throat. Snapping to attention, she almost yelped and scuttled after him as fast as her trembling form would allow. When they reached the cart, he climbed up and disappeared between the canvas flaps and she approached cautiously, keeping a safe distance. She heard him tossing things about and, a few moments later, a dark gourd shot out, smacking her square on the forehead. She shrieked and backed away as his head poked out. He snarled at her.

"Are you familiar with the concept of catching and taking hold of things, idiot? Put your fucking hands to work."

"Uh . . . um, yeah, I . . . "

His head disappeared and another gourd soared towards her. She managed to catch it by the tips of her fingers, which were still shaking uncontrollably.

_What do I do? What do I do? Oh God, Oh God . . . _

She caught a few more gourds, bundles of rations and what looked like medical supplies. Finally, he clambered back out, two large sacks draped across his shoulders. He held them open and she hastily began to drop the loot inside, shooting him covert, terrified glances from beneath her lashes. He paid her scant attention, he seemed to be taking inventory. When they were done, he tied the sacks securely and glanced over at the sleeping soldiers. Frowning, he strode over a kicked one of them in the head. He was rewarded with a loud snore, a choking noise, then silence.

He turned back and stared at her. A slow grin spread across his face. "Hah. That must have been one hell of a gangbang."

Mai's jaw dropped. "Wha . . . _why you _. . . I _drugged _them, okay?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "With what, pray?"

"My . . . my sleeping aids."

"Get the key."

"What?"

"The _key_, woman. From that lively bastard over there." He gestured at Khalid before making his way over to the camels that were harnessed to the wagon train. On his way there, he paused and stared down at his former tormentors with a wicked smirk. Mai turned away hurriedly to face her assigned ordeal.

_Oh hell no . . . _But she guessed she didn't have much of a choice. If there was one thing she would not risk right now, it was incurring his wrath. Making her way gingerly over to Khalid she started to shake again slightly, her face screwed up in distaste as she reached over and poked him so that he rolled over onto his back. Gathering up her courage, she began to unbutton his shirt, the glint of the carved metal key gradually coming into view. She saw that it hung on a chain looped around his neck, traveling up into his blood-soaked hair.

_Now what? There's no way I'm putting my hand up . . . _

She narrowed her eyes, sucked in a breath and reached out, fingers fumbling desperately through the sticky, matted hair of the corpse beneath her. Caught up in her ruminations, she missed the pad of his footsteps behind her.

Her shrieks, combined with his hysterical laughter echoed through the surrounding desert as a pair of severed feet clad in soldier sandals popped over her shoulder and performed a jaunty dance routine.

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**A/N: **Slightly longer chapter, hope you enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic

**A/N: **I make use of a different name for Bakura in this chapter, one of many bestowed by his 'men'. His real name in Ancient Egypt is never revealed in canon, but I find it highly unlikely that he would be called Bakura.

**Chapter 6**

He had never thought that he would be the helpless one. Sitting here, esconced in apathy, Seto Kaiba really had no idea what on earth he was to do. He had schemes in plenty, all thought out with his usual clarity and directness, but none of these would be to any avail without the shadow magic wielded by those who called themselves priests in this place. And that very reliance, that need for the forces beyond his comprehension, was what settled this pall of horrifying uselessness on him.

He was Seto Kaiba, third most powerful business magnate in the world, CEO of the giant, far-reaching Kaibacorp, genius designer and programmer with a precocious intellect and little social skill to speak of. At least, on an emotional bonding level. Lord knew, he used to be able to charm the socks off investors when Gozaburo had been CEO. He didn't need to do that anymore. And here he was, the once powerful and influential business man, reduced to this. Unable, even, to give the one person he cared about the most the reassurance he needed that everything would be all right.

It was in this, slightly catatonic, state that Merawhat found him later. The page had been overwhelmed by curiosity when it came to the tall, strange foreigner who resembled his master so closely and who had hugged him with such abandonment and conviction. Already rumours were rife around the palace, some saying that he was the High Priest's long lost twin brother from across the seas, other's saying that he was an evil spirit sent to impersonate Seth and amongst the children, the most common being that he was actually Seth's illegitimate son who had undergone a magically induced growth spurt.

Whatever the case may be, Merawhat knew that the stranger was no evil spirit, nor was he Seth's brother. A spirit would not be so tangible, nor display such genuine distress at the sight of some lowly servant. And anyone related to Seth would be of high nobility. They would not mistake their brother for a palace page. Whatever the stranger was, Merawhat was very interested in finding out more about him, or even about the brother the man had said so resembled him. And so the boy had invented a plausible excuse, bringing the stranger his evening meal, to try to talk to him again.

His service under Seth had prepared him for the needs of lords and distinguished guests. He did not know if the man fell under either of these categories, but something in the prideful, dignified, magnetic aura about the foreigner told him that he was someone of importance, wherever it was he had come from. He went to the kitchens and began to set up a platter, a centrepiece of fruit surrounded by exotic meats, freshly baked bread, sweet cakes and honey. A good thing about serving under his master was that nobody questioned him about when he helped himself to food. Seth was known for his unpredictable, somewhat strange eating habits. Sometimes the High Priest would forget to eat for a day, and sometimes he would develop a peculiar fixation on a specific food type. Like that time with rice shaped into equal-sided triangles. Needless to say, Merawhat had been forbidden to talk about that particular incident.

He brought the platter to the guest's room, surprised to find two burly palace guards standing to attention outside the door. _He's a prisoner?_

He trotted up, clearing his throat. Without allowing him to get a word out, the guard on the left said, "Enter. And make it snappy." Merawhat gulped, nodded and made his way in. Ahead, he could see the dim figure of the foreigner, sitting straight-backed and elegant in the same wicker chair. He had never drawn the linen curtains over the window, and the lamp sat, dark and inert at his side, unnoticed.

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"For God's sake, woman, they were just feet."

She was trembling, hands clutching her shoulders convulsively as she glared at him.

"Just feet? _Just feet?_ W . . . What the hell _are _you?"

He grunted in scorn before turning his back on her and kneeling. "Get on with it, fool, we don't have all night."

Cursing under her breath, she fumbled with the key, the metal still sticky with Khalid's congealed blood. Her hands refused to obey her and the key slipped and stabbed at everywhere on the intricate collar except the small, designated hole. Giving a growl of exasperation, the white-haired prisoner reached up and grasped her hands roughly. Ignoring her gasp of fear, he held her there for a few minutes, wordlessly, the warmth and strength from his none-too-gentle grasp slowly stealing into her numb digits, giving them renewed activity. Mai stared at the back of his head before dropping her gaze. Her hands were steady once more.

"I'm . . . fine. I can do it," she mumbled.

"About time too. Move it!"

Taking a breath, she inserted the key successfuly and was about to turn it when he rose abruptly. "What are you . . . "

"Stand back," he commanded.

Complying, Mai watched as he glanced over his shoulder, grasped the thin metal projection and twisted. There was an implosion, dark shadows that seemed to originate from the prisoner's still form, wrapping around and melding with the heavy collar, reducing it to dust in a matter of seconds. He let out a low hiss, straightening, rolling first one large shoulder until it cracked, then the other. He raised a hand, flexing the fingers slightly, smirking as a small, flickering burst of darkness swirled into existence above his palm and dissipated just as quickly.

Mai stared, transfixed. Shadow magic. The same kind that had been used to send her here. And he was wielding it without a millenium item. _How is that possible? _Now she realised the true nature of that collar. Not just a form of physical restraint, but a leash on his shadow abilities as well.

He had noticed her rapt gaze, eyes narrowing in unspoken warning as he strode over to her. "Well, now that that's done, let's get a move on." He caught hold of the reins of one of the camels he had led over and smiled with sudden, alarming charm, dropping her a gallant bow.

"After you, sweetie pie."

"Uh . . . "

"Get on."

"What?"

"Get. on. the. _camel_, woman."

She shifted slightly, mumbling something. He bent his head, squinting at her. "I can't hear you, speak up!"

"I don't know how to ride a camel!" she burst out, face red.

He smirked. "Come here."

"N . . . no . . . why, what are you . . . _put me down_!"

The last part of her sentence was cut off in an indignant squawk as he grabbed her around the waist, slung her over his shoulder and deposited her gracelessly into the saddle. Breathing hard, she fumbled with the reins, muttering to herself in reassuring whispers that everything was going to be okay.

_Ha. Who am I kidding? Here I am, about to run off into the desert with the biggest, bipolar psychopath in the history of violence._

He climbed up onto his own mount with the ease of long practise. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, mimicking his motions with her hands and feet. Catching her look, he grinned. "At a loss, are we?"

Mai deigned not to reply, opting for dignified silence. She yelped a moment later as her neck was wrenched backwards, the animal beneath her breaking into sudden swift motion. He had slapped her camel on the rump. Hard. Jostled and thoroughly disshevelled, her bottom already painful from the continuous bumping motion, Mai could have murdered the man. And yet, she was fully aware of their need for haste. Those sleeping pills would not last forever. And when a few of their number awoke, _sans _feet, to a dead captain, it was not something they would take lightly.

Glancing over at her traveling companion, she noticed the open wounds on his back and legs. He had not donned the cloak, like she had. Presumably he was accustomed to the cold. She assumed that he would treat himself when they stopped for a rest, whenever that would be. And there was something else, something that had been nagging at her mind for some time.

She was now fully aware that he was no geriatric, contrary to her earlier observations. When she was free to watch him like this, no longer under the petrifying paralysis of his direct stare, she could see that he was a young man. Young in the physiological sense of the word, of course. There were years of experience behind that gaze, of a life of constant violence and brutality, of chance and adrenaline. Experience of things she would probably never know and had no intention of trying to deduce. And there was a foreigness about him, a strange sense of otherworldliness. His skin and the fact that he spoke the local dialect told her that he was definitely a native of this country. And yet, he stood out from the others she had met thus far, possessing a strong energy, almost a magnetic field, making her senses hyper-aware of him. That, surely, could be attributed to the shadow magic, combined with his air of command and hypnotic influence. She wondered what exactly he was, when he had taken the first step down this path, and what he was guilty of to have earned such torturous punishment.

And then there was that other something, that sense of familiarity. She had not made the connection in her mind until he had looted the caravan, shoving those supplies into the sack she had held open. She knew another someone with white hair, also young, no more than a boy. He had been at the last big tournament Kaiba had hosted on the blimp. During that dark time when the Rod-wielding, possessed Malik had imprisoned her mind in a place she would rather forget and leave far behind. Bakura. Ryou Bakura. That was his name. A polite, soft-spoken, British-born boy with large, warm, brown eyes and a gentle smile. And if her memory served her correctly, Yugi and the others had mentioned that he had also, somehow, come into possession of a millenium item. One that had housed the spirit of an ancient tomb robber, the king of thieves . . .

_Oh no. Nonononono . . . It's not true. Not possible. My luck simply cannot be that bad._

And yet everything about this man screamed that her suspicions were true. When dawn came, the thin, iridiscent rays of the red sun spreading their shimmering tendrils across the horizon, and the first heat haze appeared in the distance, the thief, as she had now dubbed him, drew to an abrupt halt. She tugged at the reins of her camel, coming to an ungainly stop a few feet away. She was tired, her body sore and her eyelids threatening to close at any minute with the lack of sleep and constant motion. He was pulling one of the sacks open and, she saw, bringing out two lengths of white material. He threw one to her and she saw that it was a head to toe garb, much like a burka.

"Put it on," was his command, "It will help with the heat."

Nodding, Mai removed her cloak and fastened it to one of her saddle straps. She looked up, saw his eyes on her, watching her with brazen curiosity. "Bakura," she said, experimentally.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You said something, woman. What's Bak-u-ra?"

"I thought . . . nevermind. I must have mistaken you for someone else."

He let out a bark of laughter. "That's the stupidest name I've ever heard."

_Yeah, buddy, just you wait. _She turned slightly to face him. "So then, what do I call you?"

He was now sitting in a strange posture in his saddle, head thrown backwards, looking directly up into the sky. He squinted, as if thinking deeply. "You may call me . . . God."

"No way!"

His head snapped back into position, eyes boring into her. "What did you say?"

Cursing herself for her big mouth, she nudged her camel away from him. "I . . . come on now, no disrespect, but . . . God? Seriously?"

He grinned, canines glinting predatorially, and urged his camel forward, ignoring the rapid increase in the pace of her breathing. He stopped only when their knees touched, his roughened skin against her own, and looked down at her, the deep-set eyes burning with deadly amusement.

"And why not, woman? I have defied them, at every turn. My very existence is an abomination, a direct thwarting of their will. Do I, then, not deserve that honour?"

"Wh . . . I . . . I don't know." Her voice suddenly sounded small and thin.

"Of course you don't. Now get a move on."

He moved past her and she exhaled, releasing the reins that had dug into her palms so deeply, they had left ridges in the flesh.

"Khemnebi."

She looked up, confused at the word he had tossed over his shoulder. "It's what my men call me. You might as well know me by that name."

Surprised at the sudden opening, she picked up pace so that she was alongside him. "Khemnebi," she said, tasting the word.

"And if you misuse it, _woman _. . . " was the answering growl.

"No, no! Just . . . what does that mean? Khemnebi?"

"Shut up."

"Aw, come on, buddy . . . "

"And _what_, pray, is this perpetual, fucking '_buddy_' you speak of? You will address me as 'Master' as befitting a woman of your station."

"WOMAN OF MY STATION? Just what exactly are you . . . "

"SILENCE!"

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Merawhat stared at the foreigner. The foreigner stared back. The boy began to feel more than slightly nervous, a tingle of unease playing up and down his spine as the man took in his features with minute scrutiny. Finally, the High Priest doppelganger reached out towards him, ignoring his nervous flinch and gently pushed the hair away from his brow. A long, warm finger traced an area just beneath his hair line, a sigh falling from the foreigner's lips.

"My brother had a small scar there. On his forehead."

Merawhat shifted his feet, somehow feeling as if he had disappointed in some way. Kaiba looked away from him, towards the drawn curtains, out to somewhere beyond the boy's sight and comprehension.

"He got the scar when we lived at the orphanage. I left him to play with some children his own age. I thought it would be good for him to spend time with someone other than me, for a change. And then some others, older, closer to my age, came along. They saw an opportunity, now that I had left him alone for a while. They dared him to climb through the fence, go down a steep bank and pick up a stone from the drainage pipe."

He turned back to look at Merawhat, the left half of his sharp, aquiline features cast into gaunt shadow, the eyes that met his distant with recollection and suppressed emotion. "When I came back he was waiting for me in the infirmary. He was covered in mud. There was a gash across his forehead where he had hit his head on the edge of the pipe. And he was smiling."

Merawhat, who had been paying rapt attention to the tale, inhaled sharply when Kaiba paused, leaning forward. "Honourable Master?" he asked softly.

"He was smiling because he was proud. Proud that he had accomplished something without my help. He was happy too. Because he thought I would be proud of him."

Merawhat looked down at his feet. "And were you, Master?"

Kaiba stared down at the child, expressionless. "You're very different from my brother. What's your name?"

"M . . . Merawhat," was the answering whisper.

Kaiba frowned then tapped a finger on the boy's head to get him to look up. "The High Priest's page, right?"

The reply was rapid, eager nodding. "Yes! I'll be chamberlain someday. I just need to train and work really hard!"

Kaiba grunted. "I don't envy you. WIth an asshole like that for a boss."

"Wha . . .?" The boy's mouth fell open in shock. "Master! You cannot disrespect the High Priest with such language! It's forbidden!"

"Yeah, yeah, spare me, kiddo. Do you even _like _him?"

"O . . . of course, he's High Priest and Advisor to the Pharaoh and head of the Royal Scribes and - "

"Do you like him? Simple question. Cut the resume crap."

"Resume?"

Kaiba sighed. "Nevermind. Just . . . grow a backbone, all right, Merawhat?"

"But master, I already have a backbone."

"No, I mean stop groveling so much. People do that when they have no self-respect. Carry yourself with some pride."

Merawhat hung his head. "But I'm a servant . . . I . . . "

"So?"

He looked up, startled at the sharp reply. "I'm a . . . a servant, Master. I'm expected to obey without airs."

"I didn't mean aping that pompous jackass." Kaiba gave a short laugh and reached out, tugging the boy closer. "This is what I mean."

He placed a firm hand on Merawhat's back, straightening his posture. He pushed the boy's chin upwards so that his gaze fell straight ahead. He also gripped his arms, pushing slightly upwards so that the shoulders fell back, giving a relaxed, confident posture.

"There. Now stay that way. And always enter this room like that. Any room, for that matter."

"Yes, Master."

"And no more prostrating yourself whenever some big shot walks past."

"But - "

"Bow. From the waist. Far more dignified."

"Oh. All right."

"And thank you for the food."

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Some time later, the council came to an end. There had been many differences in opinion amongst the royally appointed priests. Some had opted to have the foreigner, Seto Kaiba, imprisoned until they could ascertain the correct manner in which to establish his origin. Others, including Atem, were in favour of keeping him at the palace as a guest, while subjecting him to questioning on the same subject. On majority vote, the latter option was eventually decided upon. When they took the headstrong nature of the subject into consideration, it was generally agreed upon that use of force would not avail them in a quest for useful information.

Seth had been strangely quiet during the gathering, something that had been noted by a few. Atem gave a subtle nod to Mahad afterwards, and the magician immediately picked up on the hint to follow the distracted High Priest. He caught up with him some minutes later, predictably en route to Kaiba's chamber.

"High Priest," Mahad slowed his pace, slightly out of breath from attempting to match the longer strides of his colleague.

"What is it?"

"Is something the matter?"

Seth paused, staring down at him impassively. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, you seem rather distracted and I . . . "

"And you saw fit to ask. Indeed."

Something in Seth's tone caused Mahad to glance at him sharply. He sighed. "All right, have it your way. Our Pharaoh was . . . concerned."

A ghost of a smile crossed Seth's shadowed visage. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you. And I would like to resume questioning our . . . guest."

Mahad looked hesitant. "Maybe I should accompany . . . "

"That won't be necessary." Seth turned and strode off down the hall, the torches that had been lit for the evening casting a soft, reflective glow across his gilt-embroidered cloak. He paused slightly further on and glanced back at the still stationary form of Mahad, a smirk etching itself onto his features. "You needn't look so worried. We won't attempt any kind of physical confrontation."

Mahad gave an uncharacteristic snort. "Tell that to someone who didn't play witness to the last time you gagged him and dropped him like a rock."

Their exchange was interrupted by an unusual phenomenon, the arrival of the young page, Merawhat. The arrival of the boy itself was not an oddity, rather it was the manner in which he made his appearance. Head held high with a stateliness fitting of the Pharaoh himself, his normally windblown clothing tied neatly around his form and a linen napkin draped demurely over one arm, he strode up to Seth with placidity and a conviction of purpose that made both men stare. He bowed.

"Honourable High Priest, allow me to escort you. I will serve your dinner during your interview, if that is to your liking, or perhaps afterwards, in your chamber?"

"I . . . in my chamber, if you please." Seth cleared his throat hastily, examining the boy from head to toe. His scrutiny was rewarded with another bow.

"Of course. Have a good evening, worshipful Master."

With that, the small form turned and strode purposefully away, leaving a suitably gobsmacked High Priest and mildly impressed magician in his wake.

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End file.
